


Into the Woods

by xzombiexkittenx



Category: Sleepy Hollow (1999)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Ichabod has a fainting problem, M/M, Magic, Remembering the Hessian was played by Christopher Walken, Teeth, Tree of the Dead, canon levels of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-06
Updated: 2005-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:05:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3284660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xzombiexkittenx/pseuds/xzombiexkittenx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year later, Ichabod goes back to the Hollow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Into the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Someone named the Hessian Christiaan and now that's fanon.

Christiaan is not surprised to find the young constable returned to Sleepy Hollow with a head full of bad dreams and the bitter ash of ruined hopes in his mouth. Crane is disheveled, angry, and altogether too full of his pain to fully comprehend what he is looking for. He would do well to pay more attention to his horse, the poor thing is so spooked it’s dancing on the spot despite of its age and old bones. 

Coming into the Western Woods without company, no wide-eyed witch, no brave boy to help save him this time. He must be sure he’s cleared the evil from this place.

Christiaan smiles, almost sadly to himself. One cannot simply appease his kind, they must be laid to rest. A shame the only one who knew that got dragged down to Hell and the white witch being too unschooled to know better. Or perhaps not, since he has no desire to lay back down and die again, the first time being much to sudden for his taste. This second chance at living, no matter how much a parody of humanity, is certainly not to be turned down.

Leaving the Tree is something of an undertaking and it’s not possible to make a less than dramatic entrance. Better if he’d been able to stroll out unthreateningly, better if Crane was less easily startled, less skittish, but one makes do with what one has. However, the constable knows enough of witchcraft and more than enough about science and the World to suit Christiaan. Crane is certainly a passionate little thing and even Christiaan, who hasn’t really been inclined to think of anyone in a physical way (other than being a body from which to remove a head) knows he would be a fool not to note the constable’s pretty face. 

Didn’t Crane come to the Western Woods in search of answers? 

Perhaps this is not quite what he was seeking, Christiaan thinks dryly, reigning Daredevil in a few yards from the Tree.

The pistol aimed at him barely deserves a second glance, Crane’s hand is shaking so badly that he couldn’t hit anything, no matter how he tried.

Christiaan dismounts and rests a calming hand on Daredevil’s neck. Between Crane’s pistol (Daredevil not being overly fond of guns nowadays) and Gunpowder’s terrified whinnying, the black charger is decidedly temperamental.

“W- What are you?” 

Christiaan rests his tongue against the back of his pointed teeth and swallows, pushing saliva up into a supernaturally dry mouth. His throat works, air rasping over vocal chords rough from disuse. He wraps his lips around an unfamiliar language, fumbling a little over the syllables, voice thick with a German accent. “My name is Christiaan.”

He smiles, close-lipped, and steps forward to take the gun from Crane’s hand, before the constable manages to set it off by accident. Crane, to his credit, holds his ground, staring up the few inches Christiaan has on him with wide eyes. But there is a curiosity there too, sparking somewhere under the fear.

Something seems to relax in Crane when Christiaan cracks open the pistol and unloads it, tipping shot and powder onto the ground before holding it out, giving it back.

“You’re not dead.” He’s still afraid, no question about that, but now it’s a more wary fear and not screaming terror.

“I am.” Christiaan does smile then, and Crane flinches away. “And I am not.”

Crane mutters something, and it sounds enough like, “You should make up your mind,” to make Christiaan laugh for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.


	2. Lost In Translation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod doesn't get a say.

There is a special kind of frustration that comes from knowing exactly what you want to say and being wholly unable to say it. 

Christiaan presses his lips together to hold in his rising ire. It is not Crane’s fault that he speaks no German, or that Christiaan’s own English is so tenuous. It is simply an irritating hurdle that needs to be overcome with as much alacrity as possible, before Christiaan grows impatient enough to get angry. He is a calm man by nature, blood lust notwithstanding, but this threatens to try even his patience. 

He has no desire to sound like a simpleton, since he is not one, but as he struggles to remember barely learned words it is becoming increasingly obvious that whatever he says is going to have to be simplistic and to the point. Crane is fidgeting almost as much as Gunpowder under the too-long silence, eyes flicking from one horse, to the other, to the Tree, to the path to freedom. Christiaan huffs out a sigh and gives Crane a hard stare. The constable wilts a little further under such scrutiny, opening his mouth as if to speak, but snapping it shut immediately when Christiaan raises a hand for silence.

“You are help me.”

“Will.” The word is apparently out of Crane’s mouth before he can stop it, and he bites down on his lip, flinching back. “Sorry.”

Christiaan nods. “You will help me,” he agrees. “We will, on Draufgänger. To the Tree. No, not ‘to’…” One hand circles as he searches for the right phrase, as if he could snatch the illusive word out of the air. “To the Tree,” he repeats, a little desperately, making a half pointing, half stabbing gesture at the base, where the entry to his dwelling is. “I am from, on Draufgänger…”

He will not be reduced to theatrics and pantomime. 

There is a snarl rising in his mouth and he dares not release it for fear of rendering Crane insensible. As brave as the constable has been thus far, Christiaan does not doubt that this courage will only last so long before the man collapses. Though much easier to simply force Crane where he wants him to go, the results will most likely prove counterproductive in the long term. 

Crane stares blankly at Christiaan’s hand. “Drowf gagner?”

Christiaan wants to wince at the massacring of his language but knows he has no ground to stand on. “My horse.” His tone his bleak. This is more embarrassing than losing his head because of a child.

“Daredevil?” The illumination on Crane’s face is spectacular. He smiles even, as comprehension sweeps over him. “Do you mean you wish the both of us to mount the beast and travel...travel into the Tree?” As abruptly as he seemed cheered, his face falls, and he stumbles back, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Oh no,” his voice is nearly gone, so afraid is he. “No, please.”

He does fall, as Christiaan moves after him, landing inelegantly on his back. Crane scrambles away, eyes huge and mouth slack with terror. Christiaan stops his pursuit and closes his eyes for a moment.

“After we speak, you to here once more. To Sleepy Hollow.” His point had best be clear because he is in no mood to continue this farce for very much longer. He holds out one gloved hand to Crane. “Get up.” 

Crane lets out a sound halfway between a whimper and a hiccough but ceases his retreat. “You will release me when our conversation is through?” 

Christiaan pauses to digest the words. He is not entirely sure what everything Crane is saying means, he certainly could offer no direct translation, but the meaning seems to be clear enough, and so he nods once. 

“Could we not have it out here?” Crane’s voice is tremulous. 

“No.” He steps forward, hand still extended in aid.

Crane stares at the appendage as though he has never seen such a thing before and Christiaan is about two seconds from just reaching down and dragging the constable to his feet before Crane finally takes his hand. He pulls Crane upright and Crane immediately lets go, as though his touch burns, before dusting his clothing off. He seems torn between embarrassment, fear, and confusion but so long as he complies with the meeting, Christiaan couldn’t give a tinker’s damn how Crane feels about it.

Daredevil eyes Crane with something of an amused glint as he approaches. It takes Christiaan a second to remember that Crane has indeed ridden his horse before, albeit under rather different circumstances and it is no real wonder that he’s not eager to repeat the situation. Crane puts one hand on Daredevil’s neck, patting the horse awkwardly. 

“Good boy,” he mutters, putting one foot in the stirrup and Christiaan winces on Daredevil’s behalf as Crane hauls himself into the saddle.

Christ and all his angels, if ever a man was ill-suited for riding, Crane is him.

Daredevil took it all with good grace, standing quite still until Crane settles, though any other horse would have been rattled by a rider with such a terrible seat.

Christiaan spares a glance for Gunpowder, still spooked but somewhat less so, now that all the gun waving and fuss has died down. Christiaan makes a soothing sound, low in his throat and approached, running one hand over Gunpowder’s flanks, patting it. 

//You’ll do,// he says quietly in German. //You’ll do.//

Christiaan turns away, content that the horse will not bolt and leave Crane stranded in the woods, and swings up easily behind Crane, taking the reigns before the constable could upset Daredevil.

The saddle is not built for two and it is uncomfortable, digging into him from behind. Though he supposes he should be grateful, as Crane is getting the same, only from the front. Reaching the stirrups is equally as awkward and he finally hooks one arm around Crane’s waist, hauls him backwards and slides forwards at the same time. It means that Crane is half sitting on him and the positioning is still incredibly uncomfortable but at least he can ride without fear of having them both tumble to the ground. Crane does not seem to see things the same way as he let out a rather undignified squeak and goes entirely still.

“Hold on,” Christiaan advises before wheeling Daredevil about so they have a decent run-up to the Tree.

One of Crane’s hands latches on to his arm with a pressure resembling a vice. The other flutters about for a moment, looking for a hold, before settling for the front of the saddle. There is no pommel, but it is a better hold than nothing at all.

Then they are thundering towards the Tree and Christiaan can hear Crane’s breathing quicken and then stop as they jump, pushing through the boundary between This World and the Other.


	3. Home is Where Your Head Rests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christiaan knows what he wants. Ichabod is falling apart.

Ichabod opens his eyes as Daredevil comes to a graceful stop and firmly tells his heart to stop trying to crawl out of his chest, up his throat and out of his mouth.

He’s not in Hell, as far as he can see, and that seems to be an acceptable start. In fact, being inside the Tree is much like something one would expect in a fairy-tale. Walls of gnarled wood, dark and rough, and black dirt packed hard as stone forms the space around them, surprisingly large until Ichabod considers the reach of any large tree’s roots.

Where they sit atop Daredevil seems like an entranceway, narrower and ill lit, that gradually expands into the main space. Ichabod cannot see where the light source is coming from as he peers down the corridor, curiosity getting the better of his fear. There are no lanterns, no fire, and the light is too ghostly for that, flickering in the corners of his eyes. Fairy light, Hell’s light, will o’ the wisp to tempt him off the path into danger. He swallows hard, knowing full well that it was a bit late for such a warning.

The room beyond is surprisingly homey however, a large fireplace in one dirt wall, cooking utensils around it and dead rabbits strung up in a line. There is a low, rough hewn table and skins set on the floor to sit upon. More skins in one corner make up a bed, a rumpled blanket tossed over it.

It gives the impression that it is more of a camp inside a house and that strikes Ichabod as terribly sad.

It is then that he realizes that although the Hessian and his horse are untouched by the transition, he is coated in the blood of the Tree.

He thinks he might make a sound, an embarrassingly pitched whimper, if the sounds indeed pass his lips. 

His vision starts to tunnel and there is a familiar humming in his ears when the Hessian puts one hand over his and pries his fingers loose from the grip he still has on the arm encircling his waist. It is enough to bring him back to himself and he takes several deep breaths, before wishing he hadn’t, as the thick, meaty smell of blood fills his head.

Christiaan- a pretty name for such a man- dismounts, leaving Ichabod swaying in the saddle. Ichabod follows and almost falls in his haste to get off the horse, but manages to get away with only a slight stumble. He is grateful that the Hessian doesn’t seem inclined to laugh at his ineptitude. 

Daredevil snorts and walks into- no, walks through the wall leaving him bloody and alone with Christiaan. Not that the horse made for excellent company, but it was another breathing body between himself and the creature that had, with such great perseverance, tried to remove his head from his shoulders.

Those terrible blue eyes watch him appraisingly for a moment and Ichabod resists the urge to bolt, a foolish notion, as there is no where to go. “I get…” Christiaan gestures at himself before reaching out to tug on Ichabod’s jacket. “For clean.”

There is something about the struggle to communicate that makes the whole endeavor suddenly so much easier to bear. Between leaping into Hell’s mouth and talking with a dead man, it is soothing to see some degree of humanity in the situation. He hesitates for a moment before stripping off his jacket, holding it awkwardly as it drips onto the dirt floor. 

Christiaan’s lip curls up in wry amusement and he shakes his head. “Leave it.”

So Ichabod drops it then plucks uncertainly at his shirt. The once white fabric is saturated with blood and it sticks, and clings, and squelches unpleasantly when he lets go. Common sense dictates that he should just be rid of the whole ensemble, but embarrassment and propriety demand that he not stand about in his underthings, no matter how disgusting his outer layers. 

That, and he has the uncomfortable sensation that he is soaked through.

Christiaan turns away, moving into the main area of the Tree. Hesitantly, Ichabod trails after him, still fretting with the shirt. He watches as the Hessian swings the heavy cloak off his shoulders and hangs it on a peg coming out of the wall. The armor follows, gloves and gauntlets, sword-belt and breastplate. Christiaan strikes somewhat of a less terrifying figure as even the black jerkin is removed, leaving him in his black trousers and a black shirt. Ichabod has the fleeting, somewhat hysterical thought, that it must make getting dressed in the mornings exceedingly easy if one never has to match one’s colors. It has not eased the harshness of his face, the startling cold of his eyes, or ferocity of those teeth, but he seems more like something Ichabod could refer to by a name and not a title.

Christiaan opens what looks like a closet- where Ichabod is sure there was no handle before- out of the wooden wall. He removes a shirt and trousers, placing them on the table and then reaching in once more to remove a towel.

“I need, the Tree gives,” he says by way of explanation, tossing the towel to Ichabod.

Ichabod wipes at the blood on his face, but judging by the smirk of amusement on Christiaan’s face, he’s not doing a very good job at getting rid of it. He huffs crossly and towels at his hair instead. It’s somewhat disconcerting that though he only looks down for a moment, when he next pays attention, there are logs in the once empty fireplace and a pot hanging over the logs. One of the rabbits appears to be missing.

“Do you need to eat and sleep?” Ichabod wonders if Christiaan intends for him to strip right there in the room, with no privacy.

“No.” The Hessian crouches next to the fire and lights it with flint, coaxing it into a cheerful blaze. “Give me…to do. Time.”

Ichabod wants to bite back on his comment but it slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. “It gives you something to do with your time.” He feels heat rise in his face. Foolish to be correcting the grammar of a once-headless horseman, but the nod that Christiaan gives him is appreciative and he feels better for having spoken up.

Christiaan rises. They stare at one another for several uncomfortable moments. Uncomfortable on Ichabod’s part at any rate, though Christiaan seems more amused by the whole thing. Damn his eyes anyway, why didn’t he just do back to being dead? Ichabod clears his throat, breaking the eye contact to stare at the floor as though it is at all interesting. Christiaan raises one eyebrow and then turns so his back is to Ichabod.

Ichabod resists the urge to either giggle uncontrollably or fall into hysterics- both a similar notion- and the strain of such bizarre normalcy is starting to tell. He swiftly strips off his clothing, and finds to his eternal disgust that he is indeed soaked through. The towel soaks up most of the mess but he finds that his skin retains a pink tint that he fears only a good soak and scrubbing will remove. He frowns, scrubbing uselessly at his arms to remove the stain, feeling a little too much like Lady Macbeth, “Out Damned Spot,” for comfort. A good man would not have returned to such a cursed place A good man would not suffer so terribly with horrors in his sleep that spill over into his waking hours, haunted and tormented. A good man would have married the beautiful woman who aided him when he most needed it and taken in the orphan not returned to break bread with sprits.

Though, in his defense, he’d had no conception that the Hessian would still be walking the earth, and not resting peacefully. 

He lets the towel fall to the floor with the rest of his ruined clothing and unfolds the trousers that Christiaan so helpfully provided. They are far too big, apparently the Tree is not a good judge of size, as the waist slips down past his hipbones to rest precariously low. At least the shirt was long enough to cover up with the trousers didn’t, though the sleeves hung past his fingertips and made him feel ridiculous. 

Ichabod rolls up the sleeves, clearing his throat in lieu of announcing his state of decency. Christiaan turns, two bowls of steaming rabbit stew in his hands and then presses his lips together, a creasing around his eyes showing just how hard he is trying not to laugh.

“It’s not funny.” Ichabod crosses his arms only to make a desperate grab at the trousers as they make an undignified drop to his ankles.

This time Christiaan does laugh and though Ichabod is torn between mortification as he pulls the trousers back up and fear of those sharp teeth, it is not an unpleasant laugh. Christiaan sets the bowls down on the table next to two wooden spoons that were most certainly not there before, and sits, gesturing for Ichabod to do the same. He clutches at the trousers and complies, still not happy about the situation but the aroma from the stew is enticing.

Christiaan starts stirring his soup, to cool it, still grinning a little. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding it in the slightest.

Ichabod takes a large sip of his soup to hide his blush and burns his tongue, causing him to choke on the hot liquid and then his eyes start to tear up. A mug of something is pushed into his hands and he sips at it, finding it to be cold, clear water. He wipes at his streaming eyes, feeling far more foolish than he did before.

“Drink slow. Hot.” Christiaan’s mouth is twitching but he manages to keep a straight face this time.

Ichabod pokes sullenly at the stew, suddenly glad that he’s tinted by the blood. He can blame the color in his cheeks on that. “Drink it slowly, it’s hot. Or, be careful, it’s hot. Or more like, don’t get your mouth within ten yards of it for it will burn your insides raw.” He’s sulking and he knows it, and suddenly that thought cheers him. He’s sitting with a formally headless horseman and feeling petulant and embarrassed because of soup. 

Somewhere along the way his life stopped making sense and he’s not entirely sure it wasn’t the day he stepped foot in Sleepy Hollow, a year ago.

“What do you want with me?” Ichabod asks, peering up at Christiaan through his lashes to avoid looking directly at him. 

Christiaan leans forward on his elbows and stares directly at Ichabod. It’s not threatening, just very intense and a little curious. “Help, for leave Sleepy Hollow.” 

Lord, those eyes are like the purest ice, deep and thick as that winter so long ago. His mother took him to the lake when it had frozen all the way down, so the fish were suspended in time. He wonders what his fate is to be and he shivers, getting the feeling that he is to be one of those fish, trapped endlessly in that terrible, beautiful ice. Even as he wraps his hands around the bowl to ease the chill setting into his bones, even with the fire blazing in the hearth, he feels as if he is slowing, in this place beneath the earth. Then Christiaan blinks and the moment is gone.

“Why?”

Christiaan shrugs and leans back. “Was dead, better be alive.” He frowns. “Is not right English.”

Ichabod looks down at his stew again. “You were dead and it is better to be alive.” He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.” 

He doesn’t want to understand. He wants to go home and…

“I imagine it’s easier to be dead though.” Ichabod puts his head in his hands, fingers threaded through his hair, making it stick up in tufts. “Much less painful.”

He chances a quick glance at Christiaan and is startled by the pity in those eyes. Of all the emotions he expected to see, that was not one of them. There is a bitter taste in his mouth and it feels like the ashes of his life are sitting on his tongue, choking him.

“Call no man happy until he is dead.” Ichabod groans and shuts his eyes. “Trust me and go back to sleep.”

“Und selbst wenn wir schlafen, fällt der Schmerz, der nicht vergessen kann, Tropfen für Tropfen auf das Herz; und in unserer eigenen Verzweiflung, gegen unseren Willen, kommt die Weisheit zu uns durch die grauenhafte Gnade Gottes.” Christiaan sipped from his mug, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “And even if we sleep, the pain, which cannot forget, falls drops for drops on the heart; and in our own despair, against our will, the wisdom comes to us by the greyful grace of God.”

Ichabod looked up sharply. “You know Aeschylus?” Though he knew that by his tone he was implying, ‘You read?’ more than anything, and he didn’t mean to be insulting, but really, could he be turned any more onto his head without his world collapsing entirely? 

“Some.” Christiaan spooned up some of the stew and drank it down, chewing thoughtfully on the meat. “American say, ‘I do not eat for living, but because the meat is…savory? and hunger is keen.” He tapped the bowl with his spoon. “I do not need but because I can. To pleasure in little things. Pain or pleasure, all is alive.”

Ichabod wonders at the irony of a dead man having a better grasp and philosophy on life than himself. Though, perhaps death is what it takes for a man to understand life. He shakes his head, biting back on his own bitterness. “And so, you want to come back the world and…and what? I don’t think there is a great call for mercenaries in New York.”

Christiaan smiles. “No matter.” 

“Well you’ll need better English, a good dental surgeon and someone to recommend your character.” There is hysteria building, a thick pressure in his chest and it threatens to spill out.

“Excuse?”

Ichabod grimly taps his own teeth. “You don’t exactly inspire good faith.”

Christiaan grins as if in defiance. “Get me out.”

“I don’t know how!” Ichabod wraps his arms around himself to help stave off the cold that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. “What do I know of getting dead men out of forgotten villages?”

This time Christiaan leans forwards, he puts one pale hand on Ichabod’s chest, resting his fingertips over Ichabod’s frantic heartbeat. “Here.” Then he pokes lightly at Ichabod’s forehead. “And here.”

Ichabod grits his teeth so they don’t chatter and digs his nails through the fabric of his borrowed shirt into his arms. “Science and magic,” he spits, as though the words are poison in his mouth, and they taste like it. 

Christiaan is settled back, calmly drinking his broth, watching him. There is a scar bisecting Christiaan’s left eyebrow and he hasn’t noticed until now. The scar, the faint lines of age and wear around Christiaan’s eyes and mouth, and oh, the scar around his neck where head was separated from body. Ichabod shudders as though he will shake himself apart. He shuts his eyes as though he can make it all vanish away into a bad dream to be forgotten in the morning. But how much must he forget for happiness?

A careful touch on his shoulder makes him open his eyes again. Christiaan is crouched next to him, and the hand smoothes down his arm to pet gently on his back, and Ichabod can only imagine that this is how the horseman looks after Daredevil when the charger is fretting. Only now Christiaan wraps a blanket around him before resuming the petting.

“For now,” he says, and his voice has only kindness in it, “no magic, or science. Just stew.”

TBC.

Aeschylus- And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.

Ralph Waldo Emerson- Let the stoics say what they please, we do not eat for the good of living, but because the meat is savory and the appetite is keen.  



	4. Cold Hands Warm Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is too hot, and also too cold. And I'm not talking about the temperature.

It isn’t cold in the room and though Christiaan doesn’t suffer from temperature any more, he can still tell that it is perfectly acceptable and Ichabod should not be shivering so. Whatever has happened to the constable in the year between has rattled Ichabod more than he is likely to say, and Christiaan has his suspicions about what those things were. Part of him is troubled; it is disquieting to see such a man willing to crawl into the underbelly of the earth and give up, for that is what Ichabod seems to be saying. Another part of him doesn’t care; simply wants Ichabod to hold himself together long enough to get him out of Sleepy Hollow and into the world. The last part, small and long ignored, doesn’t give a good goddamn in either particular direction and is demanding he drag Ichabod over to his bed to make the constable shiver in an entirely different way. As it is, the blanket wrapped about Ichabod is vibrating against his leg from the force of the constable’s tremors.

“I’ve taken a leave of absence from my work,” Ichabod says, as if reading Christiaan’s mind. “Due to illness, I said. It is lack of sleep more than any real ailment, but after a year of nightmares on top of murders, ignorance, lying and heartbreak…” he shakes his head and his hands, as he reaches for his stew, are trembling. “I had hoped Sleepy Hollow might hold some answers, since it provoked so many questions.”

Christiaan nods as he runs the translation through his mind. It is getting easier, each sentence dragging back memories of fractured lessons over a campfire, mixed in with the usual bawdy soldier’s jokes and grumblings about the insufferable American winters. They didn’t exactly imbue him with great linguistic knowledge. “You want answers, I want freedom. We work together and two head will better be than one.”

Ichabod looks at him in bewilderment. “I’m sorry?” Then he smiles and shakes his head. “Two heads are better than one. How terribly apt.” 

“Nightmares?” Christiaan is not sure that he’s interested in the slightest, but it can’t hurt to ask. To gain this man’s confidence might mean the difference between getting out of his prison and rotting here for an eternity. He does remove his arm from around Ichabod, settling down into a cross-legged position. Too much contact might startle Ichabod further, though too little might leave him too much space to retreat. It is an uncomfortable and difficult balance. Christiaan can’t think of the last time he has put in so much effort with another human being. 

“Some about you,” Ichabod seems somewhat sheepish. “Though I do believe this little interlude may go a long way to curing those fears. Others…of course, you know nothing of my past…” His eyes narrow. “You said to use magic. I’m a constable, not a witch, what makes you think I know anything of the Other?”

Christiaan reaches over to retrieve his stew, slurping at it for a moment as he constructs his reply. “I know of things because I am of the things.”

“My mother was…” Ichabod sighs, as though such words pain him. “I suppose she was a witch to some extent.” 

That explains the thrum of power he is getting from the constable rather nicely. “So we learn you. Strong blood to go far here.” He uses the pointed end of his spoon to pick rabbit out of his teeth. The action seems to perturb Ichabod, polite little constable that he is, but Christiaan only grins at him when he is rabbit-free and Ichabod’s shivers increase perceptibly. Not quite the reaction that Christiaan was hoping for. “I am not go to hurt you,” he says, and it doesn’t surprise him that Ichabod is afraid, most people were and are, but he has made no gestures that indicate violence, and he is vaguely offended that Ichabod remains so affected. 

Ichabod actually leans towards him, as if seeking out any additional heat he can get and Christiaan obliges by leaning back – a totally innocent movement – and opening up his body so Ichabod is about a hair’s breadth away from leaning against his side.

“I know.” Ichabod seems as surprised by this revelation as Christiaan himself but he quickly amends this sudden degree of trust with a bitter; “So long as I do what you want, I’ll be perfectly safe.”

Christiaan seizes him then, by the shoulders and shakes him slightly, the blanket sliding down to pool around Ichabod’s legs. “When ever I said?” he demands fiercely, words catching, as he stumbles over the syllables, catching the edges of the words on the tips of pointed teeth. “Why not? No to lose for you,” and he snarls in frustration, shoving Ichabod away from him, to rise, pacing. There are words, and words, and words building in his throat until he thinks he might choke on them. “Wann habe ich jemals etwas über Gewalt anwenden, zwingen oder verletzen gesagt? Du hast ja sowieso nichts zu verlieren, selbst wenn ich an Gewalt interessiert wäre. Du bist derjenige, der wegen Antworten zurückgekommen ist, und nun willst du vor ihnen davon rennen? Zum Teufel mit dir. Ich habe etwas zu verlieren, und ich frage, ich frage und bin bereit, etwas als Gegenleistung dafür zu geben... Du würdest mich hier gefangen halten, mich für die Ewigkeit verdammen, und du... du...” words fail him once more, even in his own tongue, and he sits back down, hard, putting his head in his hands with a groan. 

This time it is Ichabod who reaches out, fingers brushing, feather light and hesitant against the cloth of his shirt sleeve. “I think I may need to learn German if we intend to continue this dialogue,” he says by way of apology.

Christiaan shakes his head. “Gott im Himmel” and it’s not a prayer, not really, more like an oath for this child-man who will be the end of him. He takes a deep, unnecessary, breath and calms himself, turns to stare at Ichabod and finds himself nose to nose with the constable. 

Ichabod goes bright pink, even under the drying blood and Christiaan can feel a wicked, decidedly not reassuring smile creeping onto his face. One hand comes up of its own volition, taking hold of Ichabod’s chin and turns it to the side, so they no longer face one another, and then his tongue sweeps out, dragging sweet and slow over boyishly soft skin and this cleans up the blood so much better than the towel did. Ichabod’s breathing hitches but he’s abruptly stopped shivering and Christiaan can’t figure out if he’s completely tensed, or completely relaxed, and, as he traces another clean path over Ichabod’s cheek, he can’t bring himself to care either way. Copper flaking, and thickly almost-dry, and the taste of musky sweat and fear. This time Ichabod make a low sound halfway between a groan and whimper and his fingers tighten on Christiaan’s arm.

“What…” and it’s not a question, not really.

Christiaan nips gently at the line of Ichabod’s jaw before releasing him. “Tomorrow, come back with book for learn English and for learn magic and we will help both.”

Ichabod’s mouth works, as if he wants to say something but cannot find the words, and that is a beautiful irony. His laugh, when it makes it past those newly trembling vocal chords, is almost a gasp, as though he hasn’t been breathing until now. Then he is leaning forwards, half falling into Christiaan and his mouth is a warm surprise against Christiaan’s own. Soft lips press demandingly as cold hands clutch at his shirt and Christiaan takes hold of Ichabod’s hair, pulling his head back to properly kiss him. Ichabod is surprisingly forceful, those cold fingers grip and tug until they tumble backwards onto the floor and he opens his mouth, inviting in Christiaan’s tongue, slipping past sharp teeth. This wordless, universal language of harsh panting breaths through the nose and the blood tinted taste and the sweet, breathy moan that is spilling into his mouth via Ichabod’s throat.

Christiaan pulls away, staring down at the sanguine smeared, delicately flushed face beneath his own. Dark eyes shuttered by fluttering lashes are nearly swallowed up by the pupils and those hands are finally warming against the skin of his neck and shoulders, and now that part of him that wants to drag Ichabod over to the bed - and to hell with getting out of Sleepy Hollow - is howling, both happy and demanding.

One of Ichabod’s hands lets go to press to his own lips and he stares at his fingertips in wonderment. “I’m not bleeding,” he says and he sounds as if he might be in shock as the fingers tremble in midair.

“No,” Christiaan agrees, but honestly, if one has their teeth filed down for more than a scattering of seconds, one very quickly learns what will, and what will not draw blood. He wraps his lips around one of those fingers, sucking carefully, tongue tracing down over the inside, as if he can draw the tremor out of it.

Ichabod sighs and his eyes flutter shut. Christiaan nips carefully, just to make sure he has Ichabod’s attention and those lashes fly open once again, wide and startled. He grins around the digit. “Not what you thinking when come to here?” he mumbles, mindful of his teeth and lets go of Ichabod’s hand.

“No.” Ichabod reaches out and threads his fingers through Christiaan’s hair. “I…” He stiffens suddenly, shoving Christiaan back and scrambling away as he did outside, crab walk, terrified once more. “Oh god, what am I doing?”

It is Christiaan’s turn to sigh and sit up from his half crouch. “Not being afraid,” he says suddenly feeling worn out by all these jumps in emotion, and there is fear and pain spiking off Ichabod in sharp, prickling waves, but there are clean tracks on his face and swollen lips that say otherwise. He sits, calm and still, though this is more trying to his patience than taming the wildest horse and god knows how Daredevil tried him in the beginning.

Ichabod swallows visibly and gets to his feet, and if it makes him feel better to stand taller than Christiaan then who is he to argue? “I don’t understand,” Ichabod says finally.

“What to understand?” Christiaan’s fingers ache to grab, and have, and Christ, it’s been far too long. “Much being simple.” And he knows that was horrible, and wrong but the sharp wince across Ichabod’s face lets him know that the message is getting through, though the clearest sign is Ichabod kneeling before him.

“Nothing in Sleepy Hollow seems inclined to be very simple.” Ichabod’s voice holds a finality to it and his shoulders suddenly lift from their slump as he takes a deep breath. Something else other than the rage that has been stirring inside this man is moving now.

Christiaan has no idea what ‘inclined’ means but then Ichabod kisses him again, and his head is spinning with the coming and going of these emotions, for now Ichabod seems reckless and angry. Ichabod is abruptly gone again and Christiaan rolls his eyes as the constable searches through his abandoned, filthy clothing, hands darkening with blood, getting it in his hair when he shoves errant strands out of his face, before coming up with a little blue book, a burnt bullet hole through the center, which is clean of blood, save for the fingerprints that Ichabod is leaving on it now. He catches it when Ichabod tosses it to him and flicks it open. 

A book on witchcraft then, damaged and in a language he can barely speak, never mind read, but it’s a start. And a rather promising one, because Ichabod has followed the book back over to him and Christiaan takes hold of those sticky, bloody hands and licks them clean, and Ichabod is indeed shivering in a much more pleasing way before pulling his fingers free and replacing them with his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Christiaan says:  
> “When have I ever said anything about forcing, or making, or hurting? You’ve nothing to lose anyway, even if I was thus inclined to resort to violence. You’re the one who came back looking for answers and now you’ll run from them? Well damn you. I have something to lose and I’m asking, asking and willing to give in return but you’re…You’d trap me here, damn me here for an eternity and you…you…”
> 
> God in heaven.


	5. Under the Influence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With insomnia, nothing's real. Everything is far away. Everything is a copy, of a copy, of a copy.

Christiaan has his hands planted in the furs on either side of Ichabod, the long hairs rough and soft at the same time, as he kneels to one side of the constable, mouth licking and sucking a wet path over his neck. Ichabod’s head is tipped back, as he leans back on one elbow, half propped up, and his mouth is partly open in a delectable, trembling O of desire. The too-large shirt has slipped down over one shoulder, aided by Christiaan’s tugging it to one side, and the pale skin it reveals is starting to lose its blood tint as Ichabod’s skin beads sweat and Christiaan’s mouth and tongue lap up both. Ichabod’s other hand clutches the back of Christiaan’s neck, fingers half under his collar, thumb rasping over the scar that rings his throat.

Christiaan sets his teeth over Ichabod’s fluttering pulse, not enough to break the skin, but the sharp prick of a warning. His tongue flicks out to run over, and over, and over the flesh beneath his lips until Ichabod groans, fingers tighten, torso lifting slightly, chest glittering sweat-blood damp and entirely too tempting.

He shifts his weight onto one arm, and slides his free hand up under the hem of Ichabod’s borrowed shirt to expose the quivering skin of Ichabod’s stomach. There is a thin line of hair trailing down pale skin into the waist of those too-loose trousers and sharp hipbones cast delicate shadows in the pale light of the Tree. Christiaan takes a moment to enjoy the view, to run calloused fingertips under the shirt to feel fabric, and sweat, and skin, and to savor the soft panting, the sharp rise-fall of Ichabod’s chest. He keeps his eyes on Ichabod’s face – to both watch the emotions flickering there, and to keep a careful gauge on how far he can push this piece of unexpected luck – as he lips at the dark trail, tongue slipping into the shallow hole of Ichabod’s belly button. The little gasp this earns him is almost as sweet as Ichabod’s sudden movement, sitting up fully and, rather then another attempt at fleeing, he is stripping the shirt off entirely.

Then Christiaan finds himself looking up at Ichabod, who, for some reason, has decided to stand. Christiaan watches impassively as Ichabod walks over to the bed of furs, sits down on them, unbuttons his borrowed trousers and slides them off. He curls his fingers into the blankets, avoiding making eye contact.

“I’m not…” Ichabod makes a face. “I’m not fucking on the kitchen floor.”

Christiaan raises an eyebrow, partly at the language and partly because he really didn’t think Ichabod had this sort of candor in him. He imagines it has something to do with the spikes of anger mixed in with desperation that pour off Ichabod. Christiaan rises to his feet with a grace he doesn’t entirely feel, and pulls his own shirt over his head, dropping it to lie with the rest of the scattered clothing. He takes his time walking over, giving Ichabod plenty of time to see exactly what he is getting into, giving him time to get out of it again, and taking the moment to burn the image of Ichabod laying back on his bed into his memory.

His own body is scarred with old battle wounds; swords, arrows, the odd lucky bullet have all left their mark, none pretty. He is pale, even more so than Ichabod, white as the snow they spilt his blood onto and there have not been many over the years before who would lie down in his bed out of choice rather then want of coin.

Ichabod watches him through heavy-lidded eyes and Christiaan swallows, though he doesn’t need to. Oh god, all this before him and this isn’t just a second chance, this is something entirely better. Where Christiaan is hardened from battle, Ichabod is yielding and smooth, where Christiaan is leanly muscled, he is softly thin. He has but one noticeable scar and that one Christiaan gave him. He fully intends to make it up to Ichabod. Ichabod, who is trembling again, hair in a tangled black halo around his face, pale skin framed by dark furs and glowing in the firelight, flickering shadows and sweat bright highlights. Christiaan kicks his boots off, standing next to the furs as he strips his trousers off, letting them pool around his ankles before stepping out of them.

Christiaan draws in a sharp breath – unnecessary but rewarding, as he breathes in the scent of wood fire and stew, musky furs, and the sweet tang of sweat and arousal – as Ichabod reaches out one strangely, delicately strong hand and wraps his fingers around Christiaan’s ankle, tugging gently.

He kneels on the furs, leaning over Ichabod and reclaims lips that are already kiss swollen, as his fingertips stroke shudders and whimpers from Ichabod, tracing over the shadows of ribs, curving under to the hollow of his spine, brushing peaking nipples and the bruises he’s left with his mouth. Ichabod’s hands clench in Christiaan’s hair, pulling him back.

“Don’t,” he says, and there is a harshness in Ichabod’s voice, something rough and painful to hear that matches the stories and history in his eyes, something that lurks just beneath this now less-than-prim exterior. “Just…” He surges up into Christiaan’s arms, straddling his thighs, before kissing him with a brutal passion, biting down on Christiaan’s lower lip before whispering against his mouth, “Don’t make this something it isn’t. Just have me so I can finally sleep.”

That doesn’t sound right to Christiaan but he has a lapful of demanding, warm constable squirming against him and he’s far too intoxicated by the feel, and the smell, and the wonderful sight to consider his admittedly tenuous translation properly. So he returns the brutal kiss in spades, holding back only enough to ensure he doesn’t cut Ichabod’s lips or tongue on his teeth, but his hands take any extra restraint and throw it away. He wraps one hand around Ichabod’s erection, stroking a brutal rhythm as the other slides down between Ichabod’s legs and presses a finger into him, slowly, because his fingers are dry and Ichabod is achingly tight. The constable doesn’t seem to mind this somewhat rough treatment however, because he’s making wonderfully soft mewling sounds, spine bowing, mouth soft and slack. 

Christiaan twists his finger, searching, and Ichabod whimpers in earnest and slumps forward against his chest, sweating and shaking, fingers digging trenches into Christiaan’s back. Ichabod starts a litany of whispered, breathless pleas for _morepleasegodohpleasejusttakepleasemore_ as Christiaan eases another finger into him. Christiaan kisses him to quiet the desperation in his voice, the demands that sound like heartbreak.

The third finger makes Ichabod groan like the dying and Christiaan isn’t really moving them much at all, just enough to brush against that spot that makes him shiver and cry out. Christiaan slides his lips down Ichabod’s jaw to his throat and bites down, hard enough to draw blood but not enough to really hurt, at the same time that he twists the fingers of one hand and the wrist of the other. Ichabod’s eyes fly open, wide and unseeing, and he keens, a beautiful, terrible sound full of all the emotions he won’t put into words. His face his damp as he shudders and spills on Christiaan’s hand and both their stomachs, and the moisture could be sweat, or it could be tears.

Ichabod doesn’t wait for Christiaan, he pulls away, wincing as Christiaan’s fingers slide out and then he’s coating his hands in his own release, before stroking it on Christiaan’s erection. He stares a challenge at Christiaan, as if daring him to stop.

Christiaan won’t stop.

He pushes Ichabod down onto his back, bearing down on top of him and licks at the blood trails on his neck. Ichabod tries to drag him closer, and Christiaan catches his hands, presses them into the furs above his head and sits back a little to take in the sight of Ichabod, struggling slightly, thoroughly debauched and it catches in his throat and presses in his guts, twisting them sharply with intense arousal.

Christiaan transfers Ichabod’s wrists to one hand and uses the other to lift Ichabod’s hips, pulling them up onto his lap, settling slender legs around his waist. He positions himself and then slowly pushes in, tangling his hand into Ichabod’s hair, pulling his head back to expose a long, fragile line of throat, where Ichabod’s pulse beats as though it will escape. Ichabod bites down on his own lip, but it doesn’t stop the small whimpers and this time it’s pain without the pleasure. Christiaan kisses up the column of his throat, leaving bruises in his wake, and then releases his hair, pressing their foreheads together.

“Einfach kitten,” he whispers into Ichabod’s mouth, where the whimpers sound more like sobs. “Alle es ist bald besser.”

Ichabod arches up into him, legs clenching and relaxing around his waist in spasms as Christiaan rocks gently against him. “What?” He’s breathless and obviously in pain and the fact that he’s still curious and unflinching, so to speak, makes Christiaan smile a little, even as he grits his teeth to stop from just holding Ichabod down and taking what he wants.

“Shhh,” Christiaan says, before hauling Ichabod back up onto his lap, so they’re nose to nose and Christ, Ichabod is clenching, hot and tight around him. The pitch of Ichabod’s little noises have changed and there’s a definite stirring against Christiaan’s stomach again as Ichabod suddenly grinds down against him.

Ichabod tosses his head but the sweaty curls stay stuck down to his face and neck and Christiaan catches hold of Ichabod’s hips, as they move together, and it’s harder and faster then Ichabod can probably handle but he’s not complaining and Christiaan strokes another release from him and the feel of Ichabod’s body around him as he finds release is enough to drag Christiaan over the edge as well. The first time in over twenty years and if this is being dead, then he should have done it years ago.

They tumble onto the furs, the mess be damned and Christiaan draws the blankets up over them as Ichabod sprawls out over his chest, face pressed into the hollow of Christiaan’s neck, eyes already fluttering shut.

“What did you say?” Ichabod mumbles, sleep and satiation slurring his words.

Christiaan wraps one arm around the man and strokes tangles of black hair away from Ichabod’s face. “What did you say, before?” and he laughs a little, because it’s all a little childish, but he feels like he’s earned that luxury. 

Ichabod shrugs as best he can in that position. “I haven’t slept the night through in months. I’m very tired.”

“Sleep then,” Christiaan says, and presses a kiss to Ichabod’s forehead. He half expects Ichabod to argue, but the constable’s body is relaxed against him and he realizes that Ichabod is already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Christiaan says:   
> Easy kitten. It will all feel better soon.


	6. Lucid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a little late for second thoughts

It takes Ichabod a moment to realize that he’s awake and not dreaming. His first indication is that he hurts, and no matter how bad his dreams get, they are only dreams and cannot cause him physical pain. Through the muzzy, warmness of waking up there is an ache that feels like its coming from deep in his bones, pushing out through his skin. Ichabod shifts slightly, and immediately regrets it. His throat aches, the stretch and sting of shallow cuts healing, and his chest and hips are bruise-sore in places. Ichabod shifts again, trying to ease the hurt and finds that the source of his discomfort is not his bones, nor his bruises, but something much more shameful.

A hand smoothes down his spine, soothing and petting, playing out over the bumps and ridges. “Everything good?” Christiaan’s voice is sleep rough, a husky cousin of its usual liquid accent, and the sound trips over Ichabod’s nerves, both as settling and unsettling as the hands stroking over his body.

Ichabod opens his eyes and stares up through his lashes into a face half relaxed with good humor, and half concerned. His own fingers twitch on Christiaan’s chest and he has to look away. “As well as one might expect,” he replies wryly, and his voice is as dry and scratchy as Christiaan’s, more so because he actually needs water to survive and function. He rolls away, curled up on one side, his back to Christiaan.

The horseman doesn’t seem to get the hint. Rather, there is a rustling behind him and then a warm body spoons against his back, one arm reaching over his side to press a mug into his hands. Ichabod drinks awkwardly, managing to spill water onto himself and the furs, but it washes most of the unpleasantness of the morning’s brackish taste out of his mouth. He sets the mug to one side and tries to ignore the heavy arm draped over his side, rough palm and fingertips gentle against Ichabod’s stomach. This unexpected tenderness hurts more than their coupling of the day before.

And on that note, he has no idea how long he has slept, it could be hours or days for all he knows. Ichabod sighs and resists the urge to fidget, the hardness pressing into his buttocks and lower back certainly providing a good reason to hold still.

“What time is it?”

Christiaan presses a kiss – half kiss, half bite really – to Ichabod’s shoulder. “Early morning. You were sleep for two and ten hours.”

Ichabod pulls away from the comforting circle of Christiaan’s body, staggering to his feet, and, oh how he aches. One shoulder protests the way he’d lain on Christiaan’s chest, his eyes feel like they’re moving a few seconds too slow and he actually has to limp a little as he crosses the room, to compensate for the pain inside him.

“I have to go,” Ichabod says firmly, pulling the borrowed trousers back on. Sometime in the course of the night, during his thankfully unbroken sleep, Christiaan must have cleaned them off, because he’s much less dirty than he’d expected. He’s grateful for this little mercy because the embarrassment of ridding himself of the stains of their pleasure would not have been easily borne.

Christiaan stretches, a long curl and release of muscles and sinew that sends an uncomfortable frisson of lust sparking through Ichabod. The Hessian runs a hand through his hair, though it’s short enough that it makes precious little difference since it seems determined to stand spiked on end no matter the occasion. Ichabod, holding onto the trousers with one hand, bends down to pick up the shirt and is almost certain he hears a soft hum of appreciation from Christiaan, and though he can’t be sure, it is enough to bring a flush to his cheeks.

It is one thing to behave so improperly when one’s wits are addled, and he will admit freely that he was compromised, in every sense of the word, but to continue such despicable actions when one is no longer befuddled is unforgivable. For all that, for all his aches and pains and the way he’s limping slightly, he feels better now than he did when he pulled into Sleepy Hollow, a fact that does not sit easily with him. He’s slept for a day and that might explain his brain’s slowness to catch up. He’s become accustomed to four hours a night, at best, depending on how bad the nightmares are. When one is functioning on so little sleep, everything takes on a sheen of surrealism. The cold light of day has brought a different sort of clarity, one a little less manic and he’s not sure which is worse.

Something dark has been crawling through his dreams over the past year, and it’s not just his remembrances of his past, and it’s not just envisioning the beheadings. For God knows he’s seen worse on the streets of New York. Now that he’s proven himself, the station has been putting his talents to better use and he has been subject to increasingly disturbing cases. Being with Christiaan seems to pale in comparison. But if men can do such terrible things to one another for criminal purposes, for love, for hate, for insanity and clarity, then surely one night in the arms of a – a ghost, a demon, someone willing to care? – in the arms of another man is not such a terrible sin. He knows this is not exactly a strong case, but he’s feeling entirely too fragile to bother with such reasoning.

“You want food?” Christiaan hasn’t bothered dressing as he pokes at the fire. “Or just to Sleepy Hollow?”

Ichabod carefully avoids looking at Christiaan as he puts the shirt on, fussing with the buttons. His hands are shaking and he’s having difficulty fitting the little black buttons through their holes. “I’ll eat at the house, in the Hollow. Thank you.”

Then Christiaan is right in front of him, and calloused fingers gently brush his away and finish buttoning the shirt before curling into Ichabod’s hair, finger-combing out the tangles, smoothing it back. “Later. Tomorrow. When you…is…are ready. Bring books and we learn.”

Ichabod nods, unable to swallow or speak around the emotion crowding up his throat.

He is grateful when Christiaan begins dressing himself and he pretends to be interested in the carvings over the fireplace.

“I make,” Christiaan says, hauling his boots back on. “Lot of time in this year. Many fireplaces to…” He waves one hand illustratively.

Ichabod runs his fingers over the delicate patterns, finding his interest is no longer pretense. “To carve,” he says absently. It seems inconceivable that those rough hands could have wielded a knife so delicately, so patiently, until he recalls the gentleness Christiaan had touched him with, until he had demanded otherwise. “It’s beautiful.”

Christiaan shrugs, stuffing Ichabod’s mysteriously clean clothing (for hadn’t they still been coated in blood only a second before?) into a bag. Ichabod hopes fervently that it’s not the same bag he once used to store heads, but it probably is. “You will need these for out of Tree.” He slings the bag over one shoulder and whistles between his teeth.

Daredevil snorts and Ichabod startles, not having seen him appear again. The horse has only bridle and bit now and as Christiaan helps him up, Ichabod is sore enough to wonder how he’s supposed to ride back to the Hollow.

“Where’s the saddle?” And he hopes his nervousness isn’t too apparent in his voice as Christiaan swings up behind him. 

Christiaan gives him an amused look. “Not good for two,” he says dryly and wraps his arm around Ichabod’s waist, fingers splayed, warm and firm against Ichabod’s stomach and side. 

Ichabod nods, and part of him wants to lean back, cling onto Christiaan for dear life and shut his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch their leap out of the Tree. The other part of him keeps him sitting stiffly, trying to keep space between their bodies. Christiaan laughs softly, and bites gently at Ichabod’s ear, tongue slipping out to tease the hollows and ridges. 

“It will be better for you to relax.” Christiaan presses gently with his fingers, a rhythmic massaging motion that tightens something low in Ichabod’s gut. 

Ichabod lets out a sigh and does as he’s told, finding it all too easy to give in and settle back against Christiaan, tipping his head to one side it give him better access to his jaw and neck.

Christiaan touches his heels to Daredevil and the horse backs up down the corridor. Space seems to shift around them, the run up lengthening and stretching out until they have room enough. He does grab onto Christiaan’s arm as Daredevil breaks into a gallop and his eyes squeeze shut as they jump, and then it’s all over and he’s trying hard not to hyperventilate as Christiaan dismounts and helps him off.

He feels slightly offended that Christiaan thinks he needs the help and more than slightly grateful that such help is offered. Ichabod makes a face and wipes at the blood on his face with equally bloody hands. Christiaan strips off his own shirt and offers it up as a towel. The morning air is cold and the light dull and tired but Christiaan doesn’t seem bothered by the chill. Ichabod sighs as Christiaan hands him the bag of clean clothing and turns away, an amused grin on his lips, crinkling his eyes. It is a matter of moments before he is sticky and uncomfortable in his own clothes. 

Christiaan takes Ichabod’s chin in his hands and kisses him. It is neither demanding, nor tender, just a farewell. “Gute Reise, kitten.” He takes the bloody bag back and it leaves stains on his bare skin when he slings it back over his shoulder.

Ichabod’s eyes widen. “I knew it,” he mutters. “I knew you said that.”

Christiaan grins and mounts Daredevil once more, wheeling the horse around. He is charging back at the Tree before Ichabod can come up with something suitably scathing in reply.

With a sigh, Ichabod realizes Gunpowder is still standing where they left him the day before, looking as amused as a horse can. “Don’t.” Ichabod limps over to Gunpowder, giving him a nasty look. “Don’t say a word.” 

Gunpowder whickers softly as he hauls himself into the saddle. It feels terrible as Gunpowder ambles back towards Sleepy Hollow, every inch of his body protesting. The Hollow seems to be further away than ever.

By the time he gets to the house – the house being the home of the new Midwife who was kind enough to offer up her spare room to him as none of the women were currently expecting and she had little need of it – he is roundly cursing everything to do with horses and the men who ride them.

The door flies open almost before he is off Gunpowder. The midwife, goodwife Humility Middleton (and Lord, how glad Ichabod is that his parents weren’t both Puritan, as they seem to have the oddest ideas about what is, and is not appropriate for baby names) is wringing her hands in her apron, hurrying over to help him.

“Sir, we were going to send men out to find you. They said you’d gone into the Western Woods…” The woman looks incredibly concerned. “Lord above. Sir, are you alright?”

Ichabod smiles weakly at her and then the events of the past day catch up with him, his eyes roll up into his head and he faints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Christiaan says:  
> Bon voyage, kitten.


End file.
